


Shadow of a Predator

by Sweetfire22



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:51:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweetfire22/pseuds/Sweetfire22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set 8 years Post-Hogwarts and ignores the Epilogue of Deathly Hallows. Hermione Granger and Harry Potter are Aurors, and damn good at their jobs. While recovering from an injury, Hermione investigates claims of a Mind Healer whose patients seem to be mysteriously committing suicide. When she gets in too deep against an enemy that no one believes even exists, Mind Healer Draco Malfoy is the only one who might believe her when all hell breaks loose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Shadow of a Predator! This story is rated as explicit for a reason. Sex and violence will ensue, though I will make an effort to warn you of upcoming scenes at the beginning of the chapter.   
> Enjoy the show ;)

~*~

Prologue

~*~

The night was dark and silent as the tall, willowy young man stood in his bedroom staring down at his sleeping wife. She was beautiful even in sleep. Deep red lips parted as she breathed slowly and evenly. Her long dark eyelashes fluttered as she sighed, giving him a glimpse of the blue eyes he’d fallen in love with the day he’d met her. There wasn’t a single thing about her that he didn’t truly adore.

If only the voices felt the same. For months they’d plagued him, attacking and receding, fight and retreat, a vicious pattern that took an enormous toll on his sanity. A strangled sob escaped him before he could control himself and do what must be done.

Elise’s eyes opened at the sound. “Robert?” she murmured in a voice husky with sleep. “Sweetheart, what are you doing awake?”

“I love you,” he told her.

Then he raised the wand he held clenched at his side and killed her with two words.

She was beautiful even in death, he noted. Tears streamed down his cheeks that he barely noticed through the clamor in his own head. The voices were happy now, sated, cheering in triumph.

Cold fury rushed through his body. She was dead, his Elise was dead, and all because of THEM.

He closed his eyes and found the willpower to aim his own wand next at himself. The elation of the voices turned to fury then, but he snarled in rebellion and used the strength of his anguish to grit out the same words that killed his wife.

After the second and final flash of green light, the night was silent once more.

~*~

~*~

Chapter One

 

“Harry, hurry or we’ll miss the meeting,” Hermione Granger called as she waited by the fireplace. She was completely ready to leave, robes fastened with her shiny badge over her heart, wand in an inside pocket, and a stack of files a foot tall tucked into her bag.

Harry Potter stumbled out of his bedroom of the apartment they shared in London, hopping on one foot as he tried to put on his socks and inhale the piece of toast in his left hand. “Go ahead,” he mumbled through a mouthful of toast and marmalade. “They can’t start without me, right?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “The head Auror should set a good example for the rest of the Aurors,” she reminded him. All the same, she reached for a handful of Floo powder. “Do hurry,” she lectured as she stepped into the green flames. “Ministry of Magic!”

Flames roared and transported her through space to the nearly empty atrium of the Ministry of Magic. This early on a Sunday morning, the Ministry was all but deserted. Sunday morning meetings were miserable, but Harry had received some new information about one of their cases that he needed to share with the team of Aurors assigned to it. He’d showed Hermione already since they lived together, but she still had to attend the meeting as part of the team. She pulled out her wand as she approached the two guards in front of the hallway that led to the elevators.

“Auror Hermione Granger,” she said to the older guard, an old man with a stooped back that she’d seen often enough before. She nodded politely to the younger one, a sandy-haired twenty-year-old named Ethan who worked more often than his older counterpart.

“Good morning, Miss Granger,” he greeted her, coughing into his hand as he handed her wand back.

“Good morning, Wemberly,” she replied. “Pity you have to be here this early on a Sunday.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” he said with a weary smile. “Don’t get much sleep nowadays anyway.”

“How’s Mary?” she asked kindly. Wemberly’s wife was in the final stages of an aggressive form of cancer that even Healers couldn’t cure.

“She’s fighting,” Wemberly replied, trying to smile.

“Did you see the article in the Daily Prophet the other day?” Ethan piped up enthusiastically. “It was about a case you solved, Hermione! It had your picture and everything!”

Hermione smiled, though she grimaced inwardly. She _hated_ publicity. “No, I haven’t had a chance to see it. How is your training going?”

Ethan’s face fell. “I wasn’t accepted for Healer training,” he said miserably. “The other applicants all had E’s or O’s in Herbology and I only had an A. Maybe I’ll try to get accepted as a mediwizard or something...”

Hermione frowned. “I’m sorry, Ethan.”

“Nah, it’s not your fault,” Ethan replied. “Shouldn’t have spent all of my time trying to grow hallucinogenic asphodel, I guess—Oh hey, Mr. Potter!”

Harry came hurrying up to them, pulling out his wand to be identified.

“About time,” Hermione said lightly, grinning at her friend.

“Auror Harry Potter,” Harry said, sounding just a bit winded. “Good morning, Wemberly, Ethan.” Though all of the guards knew him by sight, he was still required to follow protocol and identify himself properly.

Wemberly ran Harry’s wand through the same machine he’d put Hermione’s through and handed it back. “Have a good day, Mr. Potter and Miss Granger.”

“Bye, Hermione!” Ethan called after them.

The two Aurors made their way to the elevators.

“How did things go last night with Ginny?” she asked cautiously. Harry hadn’t come home until well after midnight the night before so she had been unable to ask him.

Harry’s face darkened, to Hermione dismay. “She still wants more time to ‘find herself and figure things out’,” he said bitterly. “Never mind the face that Seamus dropped by my office Friday to tell me he saw her at Fagon’s Pub with some Quidditch player from the Chudley Cannons. I don’t know what to do anymore,” he confided to her with a twinge of desperation as they got off the elevator. The moment he stepped in the doorway of the Auror’s wing, however, all traces of weakness disappeared from his face. He left the way with long, sure strides to the conference room where a low murmur of voices signaled that at least some of the other Aurors were already there.

They entered the conference room one after the other to join their sleepy comrades. Four of the six members of their team were there. Seamus Finnegan stifled a yawn as he waved to Harry. Hermione smiled at Seamus and sat between him and her partner. Harry sat at the head of the table and placed his stack of parchment on the table. “We’ll wait one more minute for Chambers,” he said, though it was already five minutes past eight.

“Good news or bad?” murmured Hermione’s partner.

Hermione turned slightly in her chair to face Xander Loras. He was tall, fit, and 32 years old. He always dressed in black and wore a somber expression. No one had ever heard him speak about his personal life but the rumor was that he had joined the Aurors after a Dark wizard slaughtered his wife and two children, both little older than toddlers. Regardless of his silence and intense sense of privacy, Xander was a solid, reliable partner that Hermione trusted with her life.

“A little of both,” she replied.

Xander nodded. Satisfied with Hermione’s answer and being a man of few words, he turned back to the table and clasped his hands together patiently. His thick black hair was combed neatly and he looked relatively alert for this hour of the morning. Hermione took stock of the rest of the assembled Aurors.

She, Seamus, and Xander made up only half of the team. Also present were Asher and Osher Grey, brothers from a small town in the Scottish highlands. The identical twins were tall and brawny, with sandy brown hair and a light dusting of freckles on their faces. Osher had a small chip on one of his front teeth from a bar fight when he was younger, which made it easier to tell the two apart. Both were lighthearted and merry, though Osher had a tendency to be short-tempered. The final member of the team assigned to the current case was Bryan Chambers, a seasoned Auror of 42 years old. He had a wife and three children. Tardiness on weekends was not uncommon for him and Harry generally allowed him a bit of leeway because his daughter had recently been diagnosed with a rather serious case of dragon pox.

“I suppose we’ll go ahead and—” Harry began, but Bryan Chambers pushed open the door and hurried inside, his face pale and drawn.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Bryan, quickly sitting down beside Seamus, his partner.

“All right everyone, thank you for coming in on this early Sunday morning. I received some information that can’t wait until Monday. As you all know, you six have been working every angle to try to locate the witch and wizard responsible for destroying that muggle orphanage last month and killing five children. I brought you all in today to let you know that we have indeed received confirmation that it was this same couple who raided the orphanage in Surrey last week and kidnapped nine children. We’ve also confirmed that the eight children missing from the wreckage of the muggle orphanage explosion have been taken by the couple as well.”

Xander hissed between his teeth in anger. Hermione glanced at him, surprised. The man _never_ showed emotion. No one else heard his soft sound of fury, however, and Harry continued. “It is our highest priority right now to find both the children and the murderers.”

“Well, do we have any new leads?” Osher interrupted loudly.

Harry glanced at Osher, displeased. “I was attempting to get to that.”

“Sorry, boss,” Osher said ruefully.

Though at 26, Harry was the youngest Auror in the room besides Seamus, all of the Aurors present respected him and followed orders. At 24 years old when Harry’s reputation, cool head, and obvious talent had won him the Head Auror position, he’d faced about six months of muttering and quiet disobedience before nearly everyone accepted his authority.

“I got an anonymous tip last night from someone claiming to have seen about twenty children congregating near the shipyard in Portsmouth. Wednesday we will be investigating.”

“Three days?!” Asher burst out angrily. Hermione looked around the room. From the looks on the other Aurors’ faces, they felt much the same. Only Xander kept his face completely blank. “The kids could be dead or moved by then! We need to strike now!”

“The shipyard is miles around,” Harry said loudly, gesturing to Asher to sit down. “By Wednesday, we’ll have assistance from the hitwizards of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad to help in the search.”

There were a few groans at this; Aurors generally didn’t get along with the Magical Law Enforcement Squad and vice versa. The Auror viewed the hitwizards as inferior and inept, while the hitwizards had similarly prejudiced views of the Aurors.

“I know it’s not ideal, but they’re all we have. They have twenty times the manpower that we do. If we go in earlier than Wednesday, we simply won’t have enough men. We don’t want them to hear us coming and escape before we can contain the entire shipyard.”

“In the meantime, what do we do?” Bryan asked. “My time off request wasn’t approved for this week so I hope we’re still going to be doing something important Monday and Tuesday.”

Harry looked at the older man with a mix of pity and irritation at being questioned in public. “I still want you following any leads that you were looking into before. If the shipyard isn’t an accurate lead, we don’t want to have wasted this time.”

Harry concluded the meeting with a brief recap of their individual assignments and the promise of more information as he received it before dismissing the group.

Osher and Asher were the first to leave after inviting the others to their place for dinner later that evening. Bryan and Seamus left next, Seamus talking animatedly about a tip he’d received from another orphanage and Bryan nodding dully, his mind clearly elsewhere.

“I finished checking up on that woman with all the cats,” Hermione told Xander, her voice low so as not to bother Harry, who was writing something down on a piece of parchment. “Turns out she really is just a crazy woman with a lot of cats; none are transfigured children.”

Xander nodded, the edges of his mouth curving up in what passed for his smile. “I must admit that I had expected as much,” he allowed. His eyes, so dark that they were almost black, bored into her as he continued, “Next on the list was that wizard in Bristol who thinks his neighbors are the couple we’re looking for. We should question them tomorrow.”

Hermione nodded and agreed. The two made their goodbyes with little ado; Xander loathed small talk.

Harry was still writing down his meeting notes, but he finished just as Hermione came over. “Shall we go to lunch?” she asked brightly, knowing he was still upset about Ginny no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise.

“Sure,” her friend said, trying (and failing) to match her enthusiasm. He smiled at her, but there was still loneliness in his eyes. 

After the war, Harry and Ginny had returned to their relationship and gotten married a year later. Beginning soon after, Harry’s Auror training had required him to be away from her more than he would have liked, as the training was long and intensive. He sometimes went weeks without getting to see her. The three-year-long Auror training was not a walk in the park. They spent days in the woods, learning survival spells and skills. Weeks were spent in foreign countries, solving faux cases and learning to blend in with strangers. Even after they completed training, Aurors worked long days and sometimes nights as well. Hermione had come home to her solo apartment many nights too exhausted to do anything but fall into bed. Harry had come home to Ginny in much the same state.  Ginny had begun resenting Harry for being away from her so much, and it wasn’t long before she sought comfort in the arms of another man.

Ginny had met Darren, a 28-year-old curse-breaker, in Diagon Alley while shopping for new robes. The two had struck it off immediately and began spending long hours talking in coffee shops and parks. Harry had been under the impression that Darren was a coworker of Ginny’s that she was hanging out with every once in awhile. Then, he had come home from a two-week mission in Albania thwarting an attempt on the Minister of Magic’s life to see the tall, muscular stranger sitting on his sofa with his arm around his wife as they laughed over a television show. It had been nearly three months since the day Harry had walked in on his wife and her “friend,” and things hadn’t been the same since. Ginny swore that nothing had happened between her and Darren, but that there were problems in her and Harry’s marriage that needed to be thought about. She cited Harry’s jealousy and long absences as the main problems. Harry had moved in with Hermione a week later, at Ginny’s request.

At a small café just inside Diagon Alley, the two ordered soup and sandwiches and sat down at a cozy booth in the corner. Harry was uncharacteristically silent, staring into space across the room. “You can’t let this consume your life,” Hermione finally said, breaking the silence between them. “You deserve better than what you’re getting out of your marriage. You can’t let this continue. It’s like you’re in limbo, waiting for her to make the decision for you so your marriage can either get back to normal or be over with. Give her an ultimatum, Harry. Make her choose. You’ve been separated for almost six months now.”

Harry smiled sadly at her words, resignation written all across his features. “If you could get over a Weasley, I suppose I can, too,” he said quietly. The pain brought by his well-meant comment knocked the breath out of her but she gritted her teeth and forced a smile. Harry continued, oblivious. “Honestly, it’s not just Ginny that’s upsetting me at the moment,” he said unwillingly. “I...got a letter from Ron this morning.”

Hermione’s forced smile died on her lips. “What did he say?” she asked coldly, shutting down her emotions—pain, fear, heartbreak, and loss—with a practiced effort.

Harry winced at her chilly tone. “He wanted to get together sometime for lunch or something sometime. I guess he’s back from Romania.”

The _nerve_ of him! Hermione felt her face flush, but she didn’t say anything in response as the waitress returned with their food. She used the time while the food was being placed on the table to compose herself, though Harry’s sympathetic look from across the table said that he knew exactly what this was doing to her.

“You can tell your precious friend that you’ll throw a bloody banquet for him, but I certainly won’t be there,” she snapped, her tone much angrier than she meant it to be. She pushed her soup away. Suddenly she didn’t feel much like eating.

Harry frowned. “Don’t be like that,” he said, putting a hand on her arm to stop her from rising to leave. “You’re my best friend and you know it. I’ll support you in anything. What Ron did was inexcusable and unforgivable. I just wanted to let you know that he was back in England.”

Hermione relaxed slightly, her knee-jerk, angry reaction melting away. “I’m sorry, Harry. I just—”

“I know,” he interrupted with a small smile. “Let’s just forget about him and have a nice lunch today. It’s not like we’re likely to run into him anytime soon.”

Hermione nodded, and the two ate with amiable conversation, though Hermione’s chest still ached in that small place where Ron had destroyed her.

“Miss Granger? Mr. Harry Potter?” asked a small, childish voice as the waitress brought them their dessert.

Hermione looked down to see a frail child of about eight years old standing beside her, a small piece of parchment in her hands. “Yes?” she said kindly. The girl was fair and beautiful, with golden curls bound by a pink ribbon.

“May I please have your autographs?” the girl asked prettily, deep blue eyes gazing up pleadingly. “Thank you so much for defeating the bad Lord V—V—” Her courage seemed to desert her for a moment and she looked down at her feet, mumbling, “I want to be just like you when I grow up.”

Hermione’s heart melted at this, though the spot in her chest ached all the more. “Of course you may,” she replied with a warm smile. “And what’s your name?”

“Kylee,” the girl replied shyly.

Hermione and Harry signed the paper for Kylee, who thanked them and gave Hermione a big hug before trotting back to her mother’s table.

Once Kylee had left, Harry smiled at Hermione. “And to think, she probably wasn’t even alive when Voldemort fell,” he said wryly. “Makes me feel old.”

Hermione punched him lightly on the arm. “We’re only 26—that’s not old!”

Harry tried to smile, but it fell flat on his handsome face. He was still thinking about Ginny, Hermione could tell. “I have to go back to the office and write a few reports so I won’t have to work so late tomorrow,” he said as he pulled out money to pay his portion of the bill.

“Will you be home for dinner?” Hermione asked. Sunday nights they usually ordered pizza from a muggle pizza parlor down the street from their apartment.

“Probably,” he replied, but they both knew that meant, _Yes, unless Ginny owls me._

The two parted ways outside the café with a hug and a wave. Harry strode off towards the nearest Floo point and Hermione prepared to disapparate.  She pulled out her wand and began turning on the spot...until a flash of red caught her eye.

“Hermione?” said the red-haired man who was much too familiar.

Hermione’s concentration slipped and she halted mid-turn, nearly falling. She looked in front of her, hoping against hope that she was wrong, but... Ron Weasley stood there in the middle of Diagon Alley, flaming red hair blazing against the black t-shirt and jeans he wore. He’d become fond of muggle clothing while he and Hermione had been dating.

It had been three years since she’d seen him—three full years since he’d fled the country to escape the paparazzi that dogged his every step since the incident with Hermione. He was a little taller, more muscled, and had a long, shallow scar on one arm from the dragons he had been working with in Romania. His baby blue eyes were the same, however, as were his freckles and crooked smile. He stepped closer to her, his eyes looking her up and down. “You look great,” he said quietly as he reached her.

Hermione was frozen, helpless to move other than breathe shallowly. She wanted to scream out to Harry, but her friend was almost to the Floo point and besides, she couldn’t make her voice work properly. Harry would know what to do, what to say, how to act towards Ron. It was he who had said earlier that they would be unlikely to encounter Ron in the near future. She had only just found out that he was in the same country as her, and now he’d practically materialized in front of her.

In the absence of her response, Ron said, “That sweater is pretty,” seeming to think that the right tactic for the situation was to compliment her appearance.

Hermione looked down at herself. She had quite forgotten what she was even wearing. Oh yes, the pink v-neck Harry had gotten her for her birthday. With it she was wearing a black pencil skirt and black ballet flats.  Her hair was in loose curls that fell around her face in an unruly yet becoming way. Yes, she looked good. She usually looked good. Why was Ron here and babbling about how she looked? The whole situation was dizzyingly surreal.

“Why are you here?” Hermione heard herself ask faintly. She applauded herself for being able to form words while the carefully-crafted wall that she’d built to keep her pain and loss at bay crumbled and fell at the sight of Ronald Weasley. She was 22 years old again, trembling in a hospital bed full of blood and fluids.

_I’m so sorry, we couldn’t save him._

_Blood. Ruby, cherry, fire-engine-red blood._

_We did everything we could._

_Where’s Ron? Where’s my fiancé?_

Part of her knew that she was standing in Diagon Alley on a warm, summer’s afternoon, legs shaking, but the rest of her was in that horrible hospital room, full of death.

“I’m home for good,” Ron said to the part of Hermione still in Diagon Alley. “I owled Harry about getting together for lunch sometime. I hope we can put the past behind us.”

_Under the circumstances, we would like to do an autopsy._

_Of course._

_Do you want him cremated or buried?_

_I want to hold him. Just once, before..._

Hermione fell hard to her knee in the middle of the Alley, her trembling legs unable to support her any longer. Dimly she felt rocks and grit cutting into her bare knees, but the only part of her that mattered was in that hospital room.

Suddenly she felt Ron’s hands on her—those strong, manly, familiar hands—trying to help her up as he frantically asked her if she was okay. He hauled her to her feet and his smell washed over her—manly, musky, that smell she had once associated with love, safety, and security—and revulsion swept over her in waves. _“Get off of me!”_ she screamed, finding her voice at last and wrenching herself free from the horrendous flashback.

“Hermione, you’re _bleeding,_ ” Ron said in horror, staring at her knees.

Hermione didn’t even register the pain from her gashed knees. “That’ll be the second time then, won’t it?!” Her voice held the edge of hysteria as panic threatened to overwhelm her.

Ron recoiled as if she’d slapped him, yet he still pulled out his wand to try to heal her knees.

Hermione tried to pull away from him, but her sense had completely left her. In a normal situation, her three years of intense Auror training would have made her more than a match for Ron in hand-to-hand combat. This situation was quite a different story. Her mind was fuzzy and she gave herself over completely to panic. She jerked free of Ron in a clumsy, primal move, viciously twisting an ankle as she did so.

Quite a crowd had begun to form around them, muttering and gawking, but no one made a move to help. Hermione pushed through the crowd as she stumbled away from Ron, unable to put any weight on her right ankle. Ron unwisely followed, yelling her name, and finally people started to recognize him because an angry rumble of “That’s Ron Weasley” began sweeping through the crowd.

People were moving aside for Hermione and cursing at Ron as Hermione fled, head full of one thought— _I need to get out of here!_ —until suddenly she heard the voice of an angel rise above the crowd like the crack of a whip. “Hermione!” shouted Harry.

Hermione stopped, her breathing rasping harshly in the sudden silence, to see her guardian angel running for her. Ron skidded to a halt as he saw his former best friend cut in front of him to reach Hermione first. Harry pulled her against him protectively, quieting her sudden sobs with a gentle hand on the back of her head.

“Harry!” cried Ron, his eyes lighting up.

Harry gave Ron a single look of disgust as he pulled Hermione into Side-Along Apparition, the sounds of the crowd disappearing behind them.

When they reappeared in their apartment, Harry didn’t ask a single question. He immediately led her to the bathroom and had her sit down on the edge of the bathtub to examine her knees.

“You said we wouldn’t see him,” Hermione gritted out in a broken voice as Harry grabbed an antiseptic potion from the cabinet. Her mind grappled for someone to blame, even though she knew it wasn’t really her friend’s fault.

“I had no idea,” Harry replied fervently. “Out of all the wizarding places in London, I had no idea he would be in Diagon Alley at the exact same time as us. Of all the luck...”

Hermione winced as Harry dabbed the antiseptic potion on her knees.

“There’s dirt and rocks in there. I’ll have to get them out before healing the cuts,” Harry told her as she looked down to see what he was doing.

Hermione nodded dully. “Seeing him again...it’s like I reverted back to...who I was back then. I’m so weak. Such a victim.”

Harry gazed up at her as he knelt between her legs with a pair of tweezers. “You are not weak,” he stated. “You came back strong from something that would have broken most people. Ron caught you by surprise today. Next time, you’ll be better prepared.”

“If there is a next time,” Hermione grumbled. “I plan to stay far away from him by any means necessary.” As Harry painstakingly picked the debris from Diagon Alley out of her knees, Hermione’s mind wandered. Humiliation at how she had acted made her pride ache, but another part of her was confused by how Ron had been acting. She kept replaying his hopeful expression in her mind. He had clearly thought that three years would have mellowed her feelings about the incident between them enough for her to forgive him and move on. But nothing would ever change her feelings for him, as she had told him before he left for Romania. They were utterly and irrevocably finished as friends, lovers, and even acquaintances.

She’d had a few boyfriends in the three years since Ron, but none that she had let get close enough to have a long-lasting presence in her life. What had happened between her and Ron had deadened whatever part of her had wanted a long-term, serious relationship that would eventually lead to marriage. Her life was too busy to have time for men and relationships, anyway. She didn’t need them, and she certainly didn’t need _Ron._

“There,” said Harry, casting healing spells on her knees. The cuts closed up immediately. He finished by casting a spell to reduce the swelling in her ankle, which she’d twisted in the scuffle with Ron.

Hermione smiled down at Harry as she took an experimental step, feeling no pain whatsoever. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

Harry looked up at her, relieved that she was coming out of the near-catatonic state in which he had found her. “I had a good teacher,” he replied, getting to his feet with a grin.

Hermione smirked despite herself, remembering Auror training. Harry hadn’t been able to pass the medical tests no matter how much he practiced until she’d helped tutor him late into the nights.

“Are you all right?” he asked her, more seriously. They walked out of the bathroom and down the hall to the living room while Hermione considered how to put her feelings into words.

“I’m okay,” she answered as she put a kettle on the stove for tea. Though she was a witch, she lived in a muggle apartment building with electricity, gas, and conventional plumbing because muggle apartments were cheaper than trying to rent a wizard house by herself. “It was just such a complete shock to see him again after so long. I won’t react like that if I see him again,” she promised both herself and her friend.

“Perhaps—” Harry hesitated, looking unsure as he leaned against the counter. He pinched the bridge of his nose awkwardly as he debated whether to continue.

Hermione turned to face him, hearing the hitch in his voice.

“Perhaps you should send him a letter letting him know you’re not interested in talking with him or seeing him again,” he said apprehensively, likely remembering how she’d reacted the last time he’d brought up communicating with Ron. “Just so he knows for sure.”

Hermione didn’t snap at him like she did the previous time, however. She nodded, realizing the sense in what he had said. A cool, calm, collected letter informing Ronald Weasley that she was not interested in reconnecting with him or communicating with him in any way ever again would both help her regain the composure she had lost in Diagon Alley and reiterate to Ron that she did not want him to have any part in her life.

“Maybe you’re right,” she mused, taking the tea kettle off of the stove and pouring boiling water into a teacup. “Do you want some?”

“No, thank you,” replied Harry. “I really do have to get to the office to fill out those reports.”

Hermione nodded. “Thank you for coming back to get me,” she said with a small smile. “If you hadn’t been there, I might’ve splinched myself trying to disapparate...”

Harry hugged her tightly. “Whatever happens with Ron, I’m here for you. I always will be.”

“Same here,” Hermione reminded him. “We’re in this together when it comes to the Weasley family.”


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Mind Healer Draco Malfoy peered into the mirror intently as he dabbed the light-colored cream just below his eye with the left ring finger of his right hand, rubbing it in small circles until the color melded with the exact tone of his skin. He took a step back, examining the effect. Yes. The muggle coverup makeup perfectly concealed the dark bruising under his left eye.

“What are you doing, Healer Malfoy?” purred a sultry female voice.

Draco turned around to watch the lovely young woman sashay into his bathroom, wearing nothing but his shirt. She twirled his black tie around in her hands, gazing up at him with sleepy eyes and lips still roughed dark red from the night before.

“Aww, I thought the black eye made you look hot and dangerous,” she said with a flirtatious wink, her makeup, flawless the previous night, smudged slightly around her eyes. The effect was devastatingly sexy.

“Getting decked in the face by a patient in a fit of hysteria falls slightly short of the ‘sexy’ mark,” Draco replied wryly, checking the effects of the coverup in the mirror. The bruising was nearly invisible.

“Remind me again why you didn’t just use magic to fix it?” the curvy brunette said coyly, sidling up to him and running her finger lightly down his bare arm.

“Too much magical healing takes its toll over the years,” Draco replied into the mirror, quoting his former mentor, a celebrated Healer who had imparted much to him during his Healer training and had died only a year previous.

“Mmm and we don’t want anything to hurt that beautiful face of yours.”

Draco watched in the reflection of the mirror as her hands slid around his waist from behind and settled lightly over his groin. He felt her body mold to his back and her head rest lightly just below his shoulder blades. His tie was still gripped in her hands. The very tie, in fact, that he had planned to wear that day. “Almeda, I need to get ready for work,” he said firmly.

“Aw Draco...” she complained as he stepped away from her. “Can’t you cancel?”

Draco snatched his tie away and held it out of her reach, examining it for wrinkles. Ugh. He’d have to find another one. “No, I cannot cancel my patients for the day to lie abed with you,” he said bluntly, already losing interest in her. Work was his livelihood—it was impossible for a woman to come ahead of that. Even such a lovely one as Almeda.

Almeda let out her breath with a huff and stormed out of the bathroom. Draco glanced once again in the mirror, willing the impatience to leave his features. There was no point in sexual release if all that happened afterwards was an addition of more stress. He inhaled once, deeply, and released his breath, watching the result carefully in the mirror. There. His smooth, unlined face looked relaxed once more. His hair was lightly tousled with sleep and a quick spell sculpted it fashionably and preserved it with a small dollop of gel. A few strands of hair fell into his grey eyes. Draco ran his hand across his jaw, deciding that he would leave shaving until the evening.

Draco walked into his bedroom, bare feet sinking into the luxurious, cream-colored carpet. Almeda sat stiffly on the edge of his king-size, silk-covered bed, her back to him as she finished braiding her long hair down her back. She had taken off his shirt and replaced it with her own clothes, a short gauzy black dress with shiny sequins along the low neckline. “Do you want to do something for dinner tonight?” Almeda asked shortly. She was still angry with him for his tone earlier, he could tell.

“I’m working late.”

“What the hell are we, Draco?” Almeda snapped, whirling around to face him. She was less lovely when she was angry with him, Draco noted with a sense of detachment. Her nose wrinkled and her face tightened with anger, looking pinched and severe. “What are we even doing together? You never even _see_ me anymore! You were totally distracted last night; it was like fucking a brick wall.”

Draco grimaced at her course language. He’d had to commit a suicidal patient to St. Mungo’s yesterday after wrestling him down from his office window, receiving a black eye in the process. The day had been draining, leaving him little energy for intercourse when Almeda had shown up unexpectedly at the door of his penthouse suite in London. He liked the girl well enough; he had met her at one of his mother’s parties several months ago. She’d been eager to get into his bed and he had been very drunk. After a fevered night in his childhood bedroom of the Manor, Almeda had fancied herself to be Draco Malfoy’s girlfriend. From the start he’d made sure never to say anything involving commitment; since his father had gone to prison and his crazy aunt Bellatrix had been killed in the final battle, he’d been reluctant to enter into any serious relationship. He and Almeda had never spoken about feelings before. This conversation was bordering on treacherous territory.

But he knew how to sort her out, knew what she really wanted. And fuck it all, he could use it as well. Glancing at the clock to reassure himself that he had a little over two hours before his first patient, Draco crossed the room in four long strides.

Almeda stood as he approached, eyes blazing with defiance. Draco’s strong fingers closed over her wrists and forced them upward. As he continued walking forward, Almeda was forced to step backwards until her back was against the wall. He pushed his body against hers, trapping her against the wall with her hands pinned above her head, looking down upon her suddenly flushed face. Her eyes, those lovely hazel eyes, stopped being angry and practically _shone_ with desire.

“Do you dare to mock me, Almeda?” Draco asked quietly, dangerously. He noted that her breathing kicked up a notch. Her lips parted as she began to pant. Heat radiated from her core directly against Draco’s silk-pajama-clad pelvis.

“N-no,” she breathed softly, her lashes lowering as she dropped her gaze. Her body was soft, submissive, and pliant as he held her firmly with the strength of his body.

“No, _what?_ ” he snapped sharply with a punishing bite on her bare shoulder. The dress she’d worn the night before bared all of her shoulders and much of her rounded breasts. He felt her body jerk against him as she gasped.

“No, _Draco!_ ” she squealed, her body tightening. Her gaze flew to meet his, very-convincing fear in her hazel eyes, along with a shiver of lust that she was never able to hide. This was the game she played, always trying to provoke him into dominating her. He was pretty sure she only truly got off when he was playing the role of the strong, powerful, dominant male. And damn him if there wasn’t something exciting about the entire thing.

Draco thrust hard against her suddenly, slamming her back against the wall. She let out a gasp that was part-pleasure and part-pain. “You’re wet, aren’t you?” he hissed, knowing absolutely that he was right. “If I thrust my fingers into you right now, you’d be soaking fucking wet, wouldn’t you?”

Almeda wasn’t quick enough to hide her moan as he ground his hips into hers with a sensual, circular motion. He knew the word “fuck” turned her on, though he wasn’t ordinarily a man who used the word in normal conversation.

_“Wouldn’t you?!”_ he growled, thrusting against her again.

“Yes, Draco!” she shrieked, now desperately rubbing against him in a wild, undulating motion. “I’m wet!”

Draco’s cock throbbed as Almeda bucked and jerked in his arms, trying to find release against him. Turning her on this much gave him tremendous power, but he wasn’t about to relinquish it so easily. “Stop,” he said coldly, with as much command as he could muster. The effect was instant. Almeda froze, trembling, in his arms, her harsh breathing the only sound in the room. “Hands and knees.” He released her wrists and watched as she knelt on the carpet as he requested, her bottom facing him. Her dress was slightly hitched up around her waist, allowing him to see the curve of her ass, cupped by a very tiny scrap of lace. He padded around her slowly, knowing how much she wanted him, intoxicated by that knowledge, but refusing to let her have him just yet.

“Draco...” Almeda let out a whimper of desire, and Draco’s hand smacked hard against her backside in punishment. She squealed as the blow hit.

“You don’t speak unless I ask you to,” he intoned firmly, kneeling behind her. He wrapped his hand around his aching member and stroked himself several times, rubbing the head against her hip.

Almeda pushed back against him, desperate for more contact, but Draco spanked her again, five blows in quick succession that left his hand stinging. Weary of the games, he pushed aside her underwear, lined himself up with her core, which was slick and ready for him, and surged inside her, warm and tight. Her cries and screams of pleasure spurred him into a hard, fast, and silent fucking, his hands gripping her hips tightly and increasing his speed and depth. He felt her tighten around him as she wailed his name, and gritted his teeth as he thrust two, three, four more times before wrenching himself out of her and spilling onto the smooth skin of her back.

Almeda collapsed on the carpet once he released her, and Draco stood up on shaky legs to retrieve his wand from the bathroom. He cast cleaning spells on the both of them and held out a hand to Almeda, helping her to her feet. “That was wonderful,” she murmured dreamily, pulling him against her and kissing him square on the lips.

It was Draco who broke the kiss, turning from her as the familiar sensation of uneasiness swept through him. Every time Almeda insulted his masculinity to provoke him into the rough sex that she was so fond of, he felt uneasy afterwards. The intelligent, Mind Healer part of his brain knew that he was psychologically uncomfortable with intentionally hurting another person physically in the pursuit of sex, even though he knew that she liked it. The rather pigheaded, unintelligent part of his brain liked sleeping with her and didn’t want to go through the trouble of finding another girl who wasn’t the clingy type. And for all her faults, Almeda certainly wasn’t clingy...most of the time.

“I’ll see you later,” she called flippantly over her shoulder as she picked up her wand and disapparated, blowing him a kiss as she did so.

Draco scowled as he made the bed and dressed himself. He was starting to genuinely dislike Almeda. While he took the elevator downstairs he reflected on why he even allowed her to remain in his life, but couldn’t come up with any reason better than she pleased him at times and he was unmotivated to delve too deeply into the problems in their relationship.

The high-rise building where his office was located was a mere ten minute walk away from his penthouse. Draco enjoyed the walk; the early-morning crowds had dissipated, leaving the streets mildly occupied and reasonably quiet. He wore a muggle-style, very expensive suit of black wool, covered by a thick, fur-lined cloak with a white gold clasp at the throat. Though he had grown up wearing strictly wizard clothing, he had realized very soon after his entrance into the adult wizarding world that many wizards wore a combination of muggle and wizard clothing. He himself preferred the variety that mugglewear offered him, though he still wore dress robes to most formal functions. He could still proudly say, however, that he had never in his life donned a pair of the slovenly muggle attire called “jeans.”

He took the elevator to the 13th floor, amused, as he so often was, at how the other two muggles in the elevator didn’t even notice him push the button. As far as they were concerned, the 13th floor didn’t even exist. Draco saw exclusively wizard clients, of course, and had seen to the muggle-repelling enchantments himself. Though he didn’t pay rent to the muggle owners of the building, he’d had to pay a hefty bribe to the Ministry of Magic in order to avoid the muggle protection laws that had burst into bloom after the Dark Lord was defeated.

His practice took up the entire 13th floor, though much of the space was unused. The waiting room, which never had more than two or three people at a time waiting for him or his partner, was expansive and elaborately decorated. Two loveseat couches and four comfortable chairs were in a semi-circle facing the receptionist’s desk on a polished hardwood floor. A large burgundy rug took rested on the floor. The walls were a soft amber with a border of pale pink at the top. A sweet fragrance of incense floated through the air, magically caused by a spell that the receptionist recast every morning.

Draco swept through the door thirty minutes before his first and only patient of the day. Sundays he usually kept free for himself, but had recently begun seeing a neurotic Ministry worker who was unable to meet him any other day.

“Good morning, Healer Malfoy,” said Kenzie, his receptionist, a distant cousin of his that his mother had begged him to employ. The lad was actually Draco’s Great-Uncle Alphard Black’s illegitimate son, but it made Draco’s head hurt to even _try_ to figure out what familial label to put on him, so he called him a cousin. Kenzie had been out of Beauxbatons for a year now but still had no idea what he wanted to do in life. He was high-strung and easily hurt; Draco’s father had always poked fun at him and called him a weakling the few times he’d met him at family social events.

“Good morning, Kenzie,” he replied, straightening the decorative bird that sat on the counter. “Why are you here on a Sunday?”

Kenzie normally worked Monday through Friday from 10 am to 4 pm; though Draco saw patients outside of those hours, the office was only open during those hours. Draco took a closer look at his cousin. The 19-year-old had the trademark deep grey eyes of the Black family, but apart from that he looked nothing like Draco. He was tall and lanky, with sandy brown hair and wide eyes that were normally sparking with enthusiasm. Today, however, he looked very nervous.

“I—I wanted to ask your opinion about something,” Kenzie said quietly, glancing around the empty waiting room unnecessarily to make sure there was no one listening.

Draco glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. He still had twenty minutes left. “Go ahead,” he said noncommittally. The only part of his practice that wasn’t perfect and polished was his cousin. He frequently forgot to pass on messages or dropped files, but usually not in front of clients, thank Merlin. His redeeming quality was his spellwork. Kenzie was brilliant at creating handy spells for everyday use, though the irritatingly-humble lad credited it to his Charms professor at Beauxbatons.

“My mum wants me to see a Mind Healer,” he muttered, his face red.

Draco raised an eyebrow when Kenzie offered no further explanation. “Why?” he prodded.

“Because she thinks I have no future,” he whispered, refusing to meet Draco’s eyes.

Draco tried not to smirk. “Career counseling? Why are you afraid of that?”

Kenzie bristled at the word “afraid,” which nearly made Draco lose his battle with his laughter. “I’m not crazy,” he hissed, taking another quick check of the waiting room.

“Seeing a Mind Healer does not make you crazy,” Draco informed him with a touch of impatience. That whole mentality of “Seeing a Mind Healer means you’re crazy” drove him, well, crazy. It was utter nonsense. Granted, he did see clients who could fit the bill, but that wasn’t his sole function. “It simply means that you want to make yourself better. You know that I can’t see you, however—it’s a conflict of interest.”

Draco could see Kenzie’s relief at not being thought of as crazy, but he didn’t comment on it. “My mum made an appointment for Friday with a Mind Healer named Vogner. Healer Rowan didn’t have any openings for a few weeks.”

Mind Healer Rowan Middleton was the other Healer who treated patients out of Draco’s practice. He had graduated from Durmstrang and, at 28, was two years older than Draco. Rowan had mentored Draco during his internship at St. Mungo’s and the two had formed a friendship founded on mutual professional respect and a love for Quidditch.

“Career counseling only takes a few sessions,” Draco assured him, somewhat relieved that it wasn’t anything worse. Though past women in his life had described him unflatteringly as emotionally stunted, Draco had come to care very much for his cousin since he had hired him. He hadn’t heard of Healer Vogner before, but career counseling wasn’t something that required a renowned Healer. “Since you’re here for a few minutes, any messages?”

“A few,” Kenzie said, a small smile on his face. That his older cousin didn’t think him addled was clearly a relief. He reached for a scrap of paper on a stack of files and promptly knocked the entire pile over.

Draco sighed. Thank Merlin the waiting room was empty. No one was present to witness Kenzie as he squeaked in dismay and began reassembling the pile.

“Here!” he crowed finally, holding up the parchment. “Okay, St. Mungo’s owled saying that the patient you committed yesterday is refusing to speak to any of their Mind Healers and says that he’ll only consent to being treated by you.”

Draco nodded, having expected as much. “Send a reply Monday morning and let them know I’ll be there in the afternoon. I’m consulting there tomorrow as well. Anything else?”

“A man owled about making an appointment for his daughter. She was seeing another Mind Healer for intense arachnophobia and he doesn’t like how little she’s improved so far...”

Draco frowned. His services didn’t come cheap, and something as trifling as arachnophobia wasn’t normally a problem that he dealt with, unless the person was very wealthy. Still, the phobia was easy enough to overcome. “What was the last name?”

“Zipprich?” Kenzie said hesitantly, rechecking the parchment.

“No,” Draco stated coldly. “Reply that I have no vacancies at this time.”

Robert Zipprich was an American building contractor who had moved to England after striking it rich on a lawsuit, though the rumor was that he had won the lawsuit through magical deception and trickery. Draco’s mother had hired him a few months back to remodel the rarely-used kitchen at Malfoy Manor, with disastrous results. Though his work had looked fine on the outside, the house elf, Mopsy, was nearly killed a week after completion when she opened up a cabinet and the entire thing came down upon her. Though Zipprich had refunded their money and paid for Mopsy’s healing when Draco had paid him a furious visit, Draco harbored bad feelings for the man and was disinclined to treat his daughter.

Kenzie scribbled something down on the parchment before making his goodbye to his cousin. “I’ll see you Monday,” he called, holding the door for Draco’s client as she walked in.

“Marisa, how are you?” Draco asked politely as his neurotic Ministry worker entered, her eyes darting around like they always did to check for danger. It drove him barmy. His office was perfectly safe. The enchantments around it had been personally cast and reinforced by him. He checked them every week to make sure they were still in working order. Though he had been a Mind Healer for four years, he still inwardly lacked the patience for some of the obnoxious things his patients did. Outwardly, however, he was calm and polite, his professionalism undeniable.

Marisa’s eyes snapped to his and he saw relief buoy her entire body. She stood up straighter, her cheeks relaxed, and she walked quickly over to him, grasping his arm as she reached him. “I think there was a muggle following me here,” she whispered in a ragged voice.

Draco calmly detangled her fingers from his arm and led her into his office. “As you know, there are a great many protective enchantments surrounding this office. Any muggle following you would be repelled instantly before even reaching this floor.” He had said this at least twenty times since he had started seeing her a few months ago. He shut the door behind them and locked it at Marisa’s request.

As she always did, Marisa chose the straight-backed wooden chair to sit in, the only not comfortable chair in the room. His office was cozy, with his desk in one corner and several sofas and comfortable chairs scattered around the interior. Floating candles bathed the room in a warm yellow light. Draco himself sat in a tall, green, silk-cushioned chair with his legs crossed at the knee and his hands clasped in his lap.

“How was your week?” Draco began, bracing himself for the onslaught that was sure to come. And sure enough, over the next fifty minutes Marisa expounded on the muggle who had been supposedly following her. The 43 year old woman worked in the stuffy records department at the Ministry of Magic and had a chronic fear of muggles, as well as occasional crippling paranoia. Draco had been working with her over the past weeks to help her realize that her fears were unfounded, as wizards were the superior species with their magical abilities that made it very difficult for muggles to hurt them.

Draco pondered giving her a double strength anti-anxiety potion to help her through the next week when a phrase in her neverending monologue about how she was certain the world was ending caught his attention. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

Marisa gave him a dark look. “I saw all three members of the Golden Trio in Diagon Alley together the other day. If that’s not a sign that the world is coming to an end, then I don’t know what is!”

Draco caught himself before he said something nasty about the fabled Golden Trio in front of his client. The “Golden Trio.” Merlin, but he hated that ridiculous nickname. He ended the session soon after, giving her an anti-anxiety potion that would last the week if she took it. “I’ll see you next week, Marisa.”

“What if you Splinch yourself before then?” Marisa asked with a tinge of desperation.

“I will not Splinch myself,” Draco assured her for the hundredth time. “If anything were to happen to me, my partner would be more than capable of recasting the enchantments around the office.”

With a few more reassurances and Draco’s patience growing dangerously thin, the rail-thin Ministry worker tottered nervously from the office, her potion clutched tightly in her hand. As he always did, Draco spent a few minutes writing some notes from the session down in Marisa’s confidential file.

After that, he let himself contemplate what Marisa had said. The legendary Golden Trio who had defeated Voldemort had made a sensational splash across every tabloid and newspaper in the wizarding world about three years ago but had since gone suspiciously quiet. As far as Draco had known, Weasley was forever out of their little circle of joy. Not that he blamed Potter and Granger, of course. What Ron had done was unthinkable. Though he couldn’t stand her insufferable know-it-all attitude that she still had _to this day_ , he couldn’t imagine what she had gone through at the hands of her friend. The last he’d heard, Ron had fled to Russia or Romania or Czechoslovakia or something. If he was back, that was quite an interesting development.

Draco had to admit to himself that he had a bit of an obsession with tracking former classmates from Hogwarts. It had a little something to do with wanting to make sure that he was more successful than his peers, which he was. Potter and Granger were Aurors now (big surprise), Weasley was doing something with dragons, Pansy had married Marcus Flint, and Blaise was now a cursebreaker for Gringotts. Draco was confident that he made more money than his friends, though realistically he knew that money wasn’t everything. He enjoyed his work and he enjoyed his friends. Speaking of friends, he checked his watch. He only had a few hours before his pickup game of Quidditch with Rowan and a few other friends.

After rechecking his enchantments—damn Marisa had him doublechecking—he apparated back to his apartment.

 


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Hermione woke up Monday morning with jangling nerves and a sense of dread. She leapt out of bed and slipped on a robe before tiptoeing to Harry’s room down the hall. The door was shut, as it usually was, giving her no clue as to how the night had gone. Harry had gone out the previous night to give Ginny his ultimatum: that she needed to make a decision regarding their future because it wasn’t fair for him to be constantly pulled back and forth. 

Hermione hesitated outside the door, shifting her weight impatiently from foot to foot, deciding whether or not she should knock. It was just after six in the morning, meaning Harry would usually sleep in for another hour before waking up just in time to shower, grab a cup of coffee, and sprint to work. Should she wake up him up just to satisfy her curiosity? No, probably not. With a sigh, she went to the kitchen to start the coffee pot.

“Harry!” she cried, surprised to see her friend up and about. She was usually ready to leave by the time he was stumbling out of bed.

Harry, however, was standing in front of the muggle stove, stirring something in a pot. All kinds of sounds and smells assaulted Hermione’s senses—the creamy scent of cheese and eggs, the crisp smell of fresh bacon, and even the tantalizing aroma of buttery pancakes. From the looks of it, all five burners were in use at once. To add to her surprise, he didn’t turn around as she called his name.

“Harry?” she said again, quieter, realizing that he was wearing the same clothes that he had been wearing the night before when he’d gone out to meet Ginny: smart black jeans and a well-fitting, green collared shirt that brought out his eyes.

Hermione glanced around the kitchen, noticing what at first she’d overlooked: dirty pots, pans, and baking dishes filled the sink, though there wasn’t a single dirty bowl or plate that would show that some of what had apparently been cooked had actually been eaten. Since Harry showed no sign of even noticing her presence, she walked to the fridge and opened it gingerly. Sure enough, stacked from bottom to top were clear plastic containers all filled with different cooked foods. She saw lasagna, spaghetti, chicken, meatloaf, vegetables, potatoes, and more that she didn’t even recognize!

Hermione walked slowly up to her friend, who was methodically flipping crackling slices of bacon over in a pan and paying her no attention. “Harry?” she asked, now very worried as she lay a gentle hand on his shoulder in an effort to make him respond.

“Yes?” Harry replied, though it wasn’t his voice at all. Someone had taken his warm, even tone and bashed it with a hammer, twisting and bending it out of shape until it was nearly unrecognizable in the deadened, raspy tenor that it had become. But he still wouldn’t face her.

“Harry, what happened?” she asked, terrified by his tone. Judging by his behavior, things had not gone well. But how badly could they have gone?

Harry turned to face her, abandoning his schmorgasbord to the stove. Hermione nearly gasped; she expected tear-stained, puffy eyes, depression, and maybe a little anger. What she saw was almost worse. Harry stared at her, eyes empty and cold. His mouth was set in a grim, hard line that thinned his lips to almost nothing. Standing at about five inches taller than her, he would have looked almost menacing had he not been her best friend. “The bitch is sleeping with that Darren guy. You know, the one who was _just a friend,_ ” he spat, hostility in every muscle of his body. “I went over to our flat—sorry, my _former_ flat—and knocked on the door so I could talk to her, and he _answered the door._ He’s _living_ there now!”

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione let out her held breath. She wanted to hug him, but the look on his face stopped her. “I’m so sorry.”

Harry turned on the spot towards the stove. “I’m not going to work today,” he stated, sliding the bacon from the pan onto a plate and beginning to flip the pancakes.

“Harry,” said Hermione despairingly, “we’re going to the shipyard to search for those children in _two days;_ you have to coordinate with the hitwizards!”

Harry methodically put bacon, pancakes, and eggs on a plate and set it in front of her. “No,” he said simply, using a quick Scourgify on the dishes. He then poured some oil in one of the pots and placed it on the stove. “Eat,” he said over his shoulder.

Hermione stood by the counter, completely flummoxed. She had no idea what to say. When she and Ron’s life together had disintegrated, she’d been devastated. But instead of crumbling, she had clawed her way out of the abyss of grief using a combination of sheer willpower and dogged determination. This weird, out-of-character, compulsive cooking wasn’t something she was familiar with, but if he didn’t stop soon, there truly wasn’t going to be any room in their refrigerator or freezer to put it all!

She hesitated before taking a bite of the eggs that Harry had put in front of her. They were delicious. She thought about what her next move should be as she dug in to the rest of the breakfast. The room was soon filled with the spicy aroma of frying onions and peppers, but Harry didn’t bother to reply to her protest about him missing work and indeed, refused to acknowledge a word she said further, even when she complimented his cooking.  “Harry, you can’t just shut me out like this,” she finally cried, carrying her empty plate to the sink. She grabbed her friend’s arm and tried to pull him away from the stove.

Harry dropped the spatula and turned around with shocking speed. His expression was fierce and almost frightening. “I need space right now, Hermione,” he spat, his eyes snapping. “Just leave me alone. I gave you space when your baby died, now you give me the same!”

It was as if he’d hit her over the head with the pot still sizzling on the stove behind then. Hermione dropped Harry’s arm like it was on fire and took a step back. She felt shock registering on her face just as Harry appeared to have realized what he’d said.

“Hermione...” he groaned, wincing. Some of the anger left his features, but not all.

Hermione stared at him, wounded. Her friend had never before thrown that in her face. Never.

“I—look...” he trailed off, anger and guilt warring briefly in his eyes before anger won and he exhaled, saying softly, “Just leave me alone.”

Hermione nodded, feeling tears prick at the corners of her eyes. She turned away from him and walked slowly back to her bathroom, blinking back the tears.

She and Harry’s relationship was precious to her. They had gone through so much together, even since their Hogwarts years. Auror training, qualifications tests, and the Death Eaters’ trials would have been nearly impossible without having him by her side. And it went both ways, too. Hermione could still remember making tea and consoling Harry as he agonized about his testimony the night before the Malfoys’ trials. It had become apparent immediately after the war that, courts be damned, Harry Potter had an enormous say in who went to Azkaban, who received the Dementor’s Kiss, and who went free. Some, like Mulciber and Macnair, were easy to condemn. Others, like Draco Malfoy, were not as clear-cut. The fact that Draco Malfoy had been a victim of his upbringing and his father’s poor decisions had put Harry in emotional turmoil  as he decided whether to lend his support to the prosecution or the defense.

In the end, Harry had been unable to denounce Draco as a criminal, deciding instead to lend his support to Draco’s mother, Narcissa Malfoy, who had rustled up a small group of character witnesses, mostly former Slytherins from Draco’s grade, to defend him. Draco Malfoy had been cleared of all charges, though an unprecedented probation had been placed on him, the terms of which were stringent: Draco was to have no contact with his father for the duration of Lucius’s ten-year imprisonment; he was to open the doors of Malfoy Manor to the Aurors so they could thoroughly search it for any remaining Dark Objects; and he was to pursue a career in the medical field for at least eight years, in order to learn gentleness and healing instead of the violence and horror that he had previously been exposed to.

Though their relationship was something that Hermione would never relinquish, her feelings were badly hurt. She knew exactly the kinds of feelings that Harry was experiencing, yet she didn’t understand his insistence on pushing her away. Harry hadn’t left her side when she had lost Ron and her child in one fell swoop, nor had she wanted him to. Deciding that it must just be a difference between them, Hermione said not another word to Harry as she readied herself for work and left.

The Auror office was a bustling place, even at 8 o’clock in the morning. Only 20 Aurors belonged to the London branch of the Auror department, but they were all there by the time Hermione got there and the office was crackling with noise and sheer energy. The Aurors were called in to investigate any and all cases where a Dark Wizard or any kind of high-profile persons were involved. They generally worked cases in pairs but sometimes, as with the orphanage case, two or three partner pairs were assigned to especially risky cases. For 30% of the available Auror force to be assigned to one case meant that it was dangerous indeed.

As Hermione pushed through the door of the Auror office, a hysterically-crying woman who looked to be in her mid-fifties ran directly into her in a bone-breaking collision that sent both of them sprawling to the floor in a tangle of robes, handbags, and parchment. Hermione groaned as her elbow banged against the hard, thinly-carpeted floor.

“Oh!” sobbed the woman as she weakly staggered to her feet. Tears and mucus ran down her face as she stared in surprise at the Auror she’d bowled over. Her chest heaved with hysteria. She made no move to apologize.

Hermione winced and summoned the contents of her bag back to her. Her initial annoyance disappeared as she took in the utter desolation of the woman who had knocked her over. The woman’s eyes were red and puffy, as though she had been crying for some time. She clutched her small handbag to her heart as if she desperately wished it were something more comforting and substantial. Hermione’s heart clenched. She knew that lost look on the woman’s face; the woman had lost a child. “Can I help you?” she asked kindly.

This sent the shocked woman into a fresh wave of tears. “I—I already tried, but—th-they sent me away!”

The maze of cubicles made it impossible for Hermione to determine who exactly had sent the woman away, but she surmised that it had been one of the other Aurors. She didn’t blame them; who would want to deal with such a hysterical woman? She laid a gentle hand on the woman’s arm and led her away from the busy entrance area. “Come over here and let’s talk,” she said soothingly, leading the way into the empty conference room.

Xander caught her eye as she closed the door behind her, and Hermione held up a finger to let him know that she would be busy for a minute. She glanced unobtrusively at the clock on the all; she was already five minutes late to meet Xander, but it couldn’t be helped. She simply couldn’t leave such an obviously distraught woman on her own to possibly splinch herself trying to leave.

“Now,” Hermione said once they were seated, “please tell me what’s wrong. I’m Auror Hermione Granger. What’s your name?”

The woman wiped her eyes with shaky hands and took a deep breath before saying haltingly, “M-Mary Lane. My son is d-dead!” On the last word, her voice wobbled and she burst into tears again.

Hermione pursed her lips to keep from reacting. She ached for this woman but didn’t know what to say to console her. “What happened?” she asked. There had to be a reason that this woman was seeking help from the Aurors, and it couldn’t be just because her son had died naturally. On any other day she would have been a little more tender and caring, but at the moment, she was itching to get to work on the missing children case, as well as to explain to her coworkers some fake reason for Harry’s absence.

“Someone made him kill his wife and then himself,” Mrs. Lane sobbed, losing her battle with her tears as she clutched her breast and wailed.

Suddenly Hermione knew what case the woman was talking about. The previous Monday, Aurors had been summoned to oversee the investigation into the deaths of a man, Robert Lane, and his wife, Elise. Hermione thought that it had been Williamson who had handled the case, but she couldn’t be entirely sure.

From what she’d heard, the three-day inquiry had been fairly straightforward. The murder weapon was Robert’s wand, which had been found in his hand. The couple had been in couple’s therapy before their deaths, and it was apparent that it hadn’t been working very well. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” she said kindly, though she knew from experience that these words were hollow and inadequate. “Why do you think that someone made him do such a terrible thing?” She asked this purely out of compassion, because she knew that her coworker would have done a thorough job investigating the case. Hopefully she would be able to talk down the hysterical woman so that she could get back to doing her job.

“Robert was always a gentle, genuinely-good person,” Mrs. Lane whimpered, her back straightening as she visibly tried to center herself. She paused, took a deep breath, and continued more calmly. “He is— _was_ —a magical beast Healer—he cares for injured kneazles, crups, and the like—and he wouldn’t hurt a fly! He and Elise started seeing a Mind Healer just to deal with their marriage problems. They weren’t huge problems, though! Elise was a muggle and the two of them sometimes had trouble agreeing on how big a part magic would play in their lives. Once they started seeing the Healer, they were getting better—they really were!” Mrs. Lane closed her eyes tightly against her emotions, though still more tears leaked through. “He would never have killed her. They were in love.”

Hermione winced. This was classic grieving mother behavior. She wanted to find someone to blame for her son’s crime, yet if trained Aurors had already investigated, there wasn’t much else she could do. “What did the Auror investigating the case tell you when you came in today?”

“He won’t do anything! Williams, or whatever his name was, said that the case is closed and unless any new evidence shows up, he won’t reopen it!”

Hermione frowned, considering. Williamson was a good, solid Auror. If he refused to reopen the case, then he must truly believe that Robert had killed his wife and then himself. She didn’t want to step on his toes by pressing him to reopen the case, nor did she even believe there had been foul play involved. People snap. It’s unfortunate, but it’s just a fact of life. How to tell this woman that?

“I’ll look into it,” she heard her idiot self promise Mrs. Lane. She groaned inwardly. She had so much work on her plate already, and here she was, taking something else on out of pity.

Mrs. Lane began gushing her thanks and Hermione was finally able to get her out of the office and get back to her real work. She did warn Mrs. Lane that it could be a few weeks before she would be able to get back to her with any information.

Xander was already standing when Hermione hurried over to him. Instead of the traditional black Auror robes, he was wearing the Aurors’ street uniform that they wore when questioning suspects. Hermione cursed under her breath. “We’re questioning that couple in Bristol today, aren’t we,” she stated.

Xander nodded, looking out of place as he always did in the busy cubicles of the Auror Office. His restless energy always seemed more suited to the adrenaline-pulsing chases and energy-charged duels involved with apprehending Dark Wizards. Still, he waited patiently while his partner rushed to the locker room and changed into her street gear, as it was known. “Street gear” was a black cloak, fastened at the throat with a pin that could easily be detached if the cloak would prove detrimental in a scuffle, a thin, dark-red vest that was imbued with defense charms to lessen curses and jinxes, and comfortable black pants similar to denim that both looked professional and were easy to run in. Hermione’s Auror badge was fastened on the breast of the black shirt that she wore under the shield vest.

“Ready?” Xander asked as Hermione double-checked her badge placement. His restlessness was palpable, though he kept it tightly reined-in, as usual.

“Ready.”

“I visited the address yesterday,” Xander said, catching Hermione’s arm as she headed for the elevator. “It’s in an entirely-magically district, and I saw enough that I can apparate there instead of having to Floo or fly.”

Hermione smiled uneasily, impressed and worried. Her sometimes-reckless partner had a bad habit of working on the weekends; since his wife and children were dead, he did background research on suspects during his free time. It was enough to worry Hermione, but she had no idea how to bring it up to her distant, impersonal partner. Hermione took Xander’s proffered arm and closed her eyes as they disapparated.

 


	4. Chapter Four

**I have changed this chapter considerably, so if you already read it, I would suggest another read. The first quarter of the chapter is the same, while the rest has completely changed and been added onto. Thanks as always for your eyes :)**

Chapter Four

Mr. Draco Malfoy,

It has come to our attention that your probation sentence of eight (8) years is coming to an end. You are hereby summoned to a hearing ninety (90) days from the posting of this letter, December the 22nd, at 9:00 a.m. to determine whether the probation will be terminated or continued.

Sincerely,

Ernie Macmillan,

Undersecretary to the Head of the Wizengamot

Draco tossed the letter on the counter, sniffing derisively. He could just _see_ Ernie Macmillan’s smug Hufflepuff face as he wrote this letter. That prig always thought himself much higher than he was. Not that he much cared. His Ministry-imposed sentence of working in the field of Healing was coming to an end. That would change nothing in his life. His job was the focal point of his life and had kept him sane in the years following Voldemort’s downfall. Even released from the conditions of his probation, he planned to continue working as a Mind Healer. When he was a boy of 17, the punishment had seemed impossible to fulfill. He was alone, his father in jail and his mother distraught, and the intensive 3-year Healer training was daunting. The alternative, however, was Azkaban. So he’d gathered his sanity and applied to Healer school.

The conditions of his probation were flexible enough that he could have worked as a Healer’s assistant or even a janitor, as long as it was at a Healing facility, but his pride wouldn’t let him. If he was going to spend eight years of his life stuck in one career, it might as well be a respected, profitable one. While taking a mandatory course about the wizard brain, he’d developed an obsession with psychoanalyzing people he felt had ruined his life, such as his father and the Dark Lord. One thing led to another and by the time he was 21, he was a fully-trained and licensed Mind Healer.

Days like today, however, almost made him rethink his career. Draco idly flipped through the rest of his mail. Unsurprisingly, there was a letter from his mother informing him (as she did every week) of his father’s condition in Azkaban, as noted from her weekly visit. This Draco tossed in the trash, along with an old copy of _The Daily Prophet_ and the latest issue of Witch Weekly, which he only received because he had been featured on the cover a few months prior for their “Bad Boys Turned Good” edition. And the company had been sending him free issues ever since.

The next letter had his name written on it in curly, elaborate handwriting. Draco groaned.

Draco,

My place. 9 o’clock. Wear leather. Nothing but leather.

Almeda

Had she really—yes, she had, kissed the letter with lipstick to leave a perfect imprint of her lips below her signature. He rolled his eyes cynically at the utter banality of it all. There was nothing he felt less like doing than seeing her. Besides, leather? Boots, yes. Jacket, maybe. Pants? Definitely not. He tossed the letter in the garbage and promptly forgot about it.

Draco glanced at the clock, ascertaining that he had a little under an hour before he needed to leave for Rowan’s house. Quidditch was just what he needed to relax after a trying day like this. First of all, he’d gone to St. Mungo’s to see his patient who had stopped taking his potions and tried to kill himself in Draco’s office a few days before. The hospital had given the wealthy young businessman such a high level of sedative potions that he had been too medicated to be able to speak to Draco. It was a waste of his valuable time. Draco had snarled medication orders at the Healer in charge before storming from the hospital in a fit of rage that had taken two coffees and a Cheering Charm just to take the edge off.

His second patient of the day, a rich socialite friend of his mother’s, had masterfully avoided all of his probing questions into her fractured relationship with her daughter, trying for the better part of the hour to convince him to take her granddaughter to his mother’s Christmas gala that was still three months away.

No, the day had not been one of his best, but Quidditch with his partner Rowan would soon fix that.

Draco changed from his professional clothes into a black Armani tracksuit and trainers, tossing a change of clothes and a towel into his bag for afterwards. He could already feel his mood lightening as he unlocked his Firebolt from its cabinet and collected his wand from the counter. He would banish this terrible start to the week with a good game of Quidditch with his partner. He turned smartly on the spot and disappeared with a loud crack.

Draco had barely materialized in the blinding sunlight when a small body hurtled into his legs and nearly knocked him over. “Draco!” shrieked an ear-piercing child’s voice.

“Ava, let him breathe,” laughed Rowan Middleton, coming out the front door of his large house in France. Though he worked primarily out of Draco’s practice in London, the flexibility of wizarding travel made it easy for him to move between France and London. His teeth flashed white in the sun as he laughed. His light-blonde hair blew lightly in the breeze. He scooped up his 3-year-old daughter and tossed her high in the air, catching her again smoothly. Ava squealed with delight and begged for more, though Rowan didn’t oblige. “Go find your mother, sweetling,” he chuckled, setting his daughter inside the house and closing the door behind them.

Rowan and Draco clasped hands and Rowan asked him, “How was your day? I heard about Matt O’Leary trying to jump from your window. You still have a touch of swelling under your eye, by the way.”

Draco rolled his eyes and walked with Rowan around the massive chateau to the backyard Quidditch pitch. “How was my day?” he grumbled rhetorically, stepping around a levitating toy broom and a yapping toy dog. “Not even worth discussing.” He slung his bag towards the edge of the Quidditch pitch, mounted his broom, and kicked off towards the sky.

Rowan shook his head, but knowing his friend and partner well, dropped the topic and released the Snitches from his pocket. The two played fast and hard over the next hour, their skills very closely matched. They played a complicated, two-person Quidditch-like game of their own invention in which the main goal was to catch the other person’s Snitch, but equal importance was placed upon guarding one’s own Snitch and scoring points with a very heavy, agile ball that moved and dodged both players of its own accord. An hour slid by in what felt like moments. The sun was starting to sink over the hills and both men were sweating and panting for breath.

“Boys!”

Both men heard the voice of Rowan’s wife Aliyah calling them from the house, but only Rowan halted in midair to pay attention.

“Yes?” he called, searching for his wife’s face thirty feet below them in the gathering dusk. Draco took advantage of his adversary’s distraction to rocket down from above and snatch the Snitch from right under Rowan’s broomstick in a dangerous, pulse-pounding dive.

“Dinner’s ready!” she called up..

“Damn!” growled Rowan as Draco pulled up beside him, the Snitch clutched triumphantly in his hand. To his wife, he shouted that they would be in soon. “Cheater,” he grumbled, but his eyes were light and amused.

“Never take your mind off the game,” Draco retorted, sweat shining on his face as he took several deep breaths, forcing air back into his lungs after his exerting dive. “Rookie mistake,” he laughed.

As they flew down towards the ground at a leisurely speed, Rowan asked, “Are you staying for dinner?”

Draco shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m beat. I have to be at St. Mungo’s early tomorrow to consult for them.”

Rowan grimaced. “I don’t know why you consult there when it’s much more profitable to sign new clients to the practice. The hospital pays you a mere _pittance_ per hour.” He summoned the game balls back to him and strapped them into their leather case before stowing it in the brick shed along with his broomstick.

“It looks good,” Draco replied simply. “My probation hearing is coming up.” Once his probation was officially ended, he could stop living under the Ministry’s scrutiny and going to the humiliating monthly visits with his probation hitwizard.

Understanding dawned on Rowan’s face as his feet touched the ground. He knew all about the terms of Draco’s probation and realized that anything Draco could do that would improve his standing in the Ministry could only help him when the end of his probation came up for consideration. “Fair enough. Do you have a date for it already?”

“Yes, I received the notice today,” Draco explained, waving his wand to wordlessly pack up the three balls they were playing with.

“I’ll be there,” Rowan said without hesitation. He gathered up the game balls and his broom and began walking towards the house.

Draco nodded, made uncomfortable by his friend’s support, casual and free as it was. He had difficulty dealing with kindness from others who expected nothing in return, even when it came from his closest friend.

“Oh, you guys are filthy!” cried Aliyah as the two men tromped into the house.

Draco looked down at himself for the first time; sweat stained the expensive fabric of his tracksuit and there were even some streaks of mud from an ill-aimed dive that had sent him and Rowan both sliding against the ground. He completed his assessment of himself and looked up again at Aliyah. “I would agree with that,” he said dryly, a wry grin on his face. “Sorry, Aliyah.” He liked Rowan’s wife; she was kind, loyal, and had a welcoming sort of personality that made him feel at home in her house whenever he was there. Just now, however, she was not pleased with the appearance of either one of them.

“We’ll go shower, sweetheart,” Rowan assured her, planting a kiss on her forehead that melted away the irritation on her face.

Draco showered quickly in the guest bathroom and said his goodbyes to his friend’s family. Rowan had to detach his daughter Ava from Draco’s leg so he could disapparate.

Draco reappeared in his penthouse, sighing with satisfaction as he gazed around his home. He could feel the sweet ache in his muscles from the intense game of Quidditch and stretched languidly, his joints popping comfortably. He idly remembered Almeda’s letter and glanced at the clock. It was just after 9 o’clock and he still hadn’t eaten dinner. He really didn’t like eating alone. Maybe he’d stop by Almeda’s and take her to dinner. But he would be damned if he wore leather pants. He sighed once more and donned a pair of black jeans, a red silk shirt, and—in a weary concession to Almeda’s leather request—leather boots and a leather jacket.

Draco focused on his destination and disapparated. He reappeared inside Almeda’s flat, wincing as he was bombarded by the scents of sweet cloves and fire, as well as an oppressive wave of heat. He had apparated just inside the door, a hundred feet away from the fireplace, yet it was stifling. He slid off his leather coat, which was already sticky with the sweat beading on his neck, and hung it on the coat hook next to Almeda’s before setting off to find her. The apartment was small; surely she had heard him apparate in.

As he entered Almeda’s bedroom, the heat increased and became almost unbearable. And then Draco saw why. Flames wreathed the room, covering every inch but for a wide path leading to the center of the room where Almeda lay, tied to the bed posts with heavy chains. She was spead-eagled, her eyes closed, wearing just a lacy red bra and panties. Her chest, shiny with sweat, rose and fell slowly with her breaths, though she did not move or show any signs of noticing either Draco’s presence or the flames licking at the legs of the bed.

“Almeda?” Draco said hoarsely, his chest tightening. His feet felt rooted to the ground as his mind forced him back to his seventh year at Hogwarts when Harry Potter had saved his life. Fire was his one crippling fear. The Fiendfyre cast in the Room of Requirement had scared him like nothing else ever had. His heart raced, blood pounding in his ears so that he could hear nothing else. Still, he forced himself forward, through the flames, along the path to the bed, his breathing ragged and harsh. He jumped over a foot-tall column of flames in one fluid motion and landed on the bed between Almeda’s spread legs.

As Draco’s weight shifted Almeda’s body, her eyes opened to reveal bright, awake eyes. Her lips curved into a sultry smile and she purred, “You’re late, baby. And I’ve been so _hot_ for you.”

Draco Malfoy nearly had a heart attack.

Almeda moved her body sinuously beneath him and winked at him.

“These aren’t real?” he hissed, teeth gritted as he gestured to the flames behind him, which, now that he looked closer, weren’t damaging any of the furniture or drapes that they were covering. His head began to clear slightly as the sense of immediate danger receded.

Almeda rolled her eyes, managing somehow to look condescending despite her wrists being shackled to the bedposts. “Of course not, fool. Flame illusion and a heating charm.” Her eyes glittered as she took in his damp, tousled hair and red silk shirt. “You’re so hot when you’re all sweaty. Now fuck me like we’re in Hell.”

Draco recoiled from her seductive gaze. “You’re fucked up,” he spat furiously, pushing himself away from her. “You’re completely—I don’t even—” He stopped, breathing heavily, fighting to contain his anger, fueled more so by the intense heat and his barely-reined-in fear at the sight of the flames, harmless though they were. “We’re done,” was all he could say before he disapparated to keep himself from harming her.

 


	5. Chapter Five

Chapter 5

Hermione knocked on the chipped wooden door of number 16, calling out casually, “Aurors, please open the door!” She glanced to her left at Xander, who stood in the standard defensive position to the side of the door. He practically tingled with energy, on the balls of his feet. In contrast, Hermione was relaxed and at ease. The tip they were following seemed like the typical “I don’t like my neighbors so they must be the bad guys you’re looking for” tip that they had dutifully investigated a thousand times with few useful results. It was, therefore, a terrific surprise when the door suddenly exploded outwards with a horrendous, concussive bang.

Hermione threw up her hands to protect her face and felt pain blaze in her shoulder as a thick fragment of wood buried itself deep in her flesh. The force of the explosion slammed her backwards and she hit the pavement hard—her back hit first, then her head. As her ears rang and head pounded mercilessly, Mad-Eye Moody’s voice floated absurdly through her brain, barking “CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” Even though she doubted the tip they’d received would be of any use, she should have still been on her guard. Moody would have been disappointed in her.

Vision hazy, she vaguely registered that Xander was unhurt and running to her side, eyes wide and panicked as he bent down over her.

“Hermione!”

Xander’s lips formed her name but Hermione couldn’t hear a word. It didn’t matter. They still had a job to do. There was a loud ringing in her ears, burning in her chest, and she couldn’t feel her legs at all. But she knew that she wasn’t dying. The chunk of wood sticking out of her shoulder wasn’t in any vital organs. She probably had a concussion, but she wasn’t in danger of dying in the next ten minutes. “Go!” she screamed, using her unhurt arm to shove at Xander. Every second he stayed by her side was another second that the criminals were getting away.

Xander needed no further prodding. He turned on his heel and charged into the house through the smoldering wreckage that had once been the door.  As he disappeared from sight, Hermione raised her wand—which she’d had the presence of mind to hold onto—and focused as best as she could on the first happy memory that floated into her scattered, pain-filled brain.

 _“There he is!” the chipper Healer Assistant chirped, pointing to the image that was magically shown on the screen. She moved her wand slowly over Hermione’s belly. “Aaaand,_ there’s _the head! He looks great—the perfect size for being three months along.” Hermione felt her face shining with happiness as she watched her baby on the magical ultrasound machine for the first time. Even though she had no idea how Ron was going to react when she told him that she was pregnant, her heart swelled with happiness._

Hermione’s otter Patronus burst into form, summoned by the words “Expecto Patronum” and Hermione’s joyful memory, and floated around her bleeding body expectantly. Exhausted by the effort it had taken to produce her Patronus, Hermione blurted out the first person that she could think of to come to her aid. “Harry, Auror down,” she managed to gasp, sending the shimmery otter off to find Harry Potter. Yes, Harry was in emotional turmoil at the moment, but he was still her senior officer and she knew he would come to her aid.

Once the Patronus had vanished, Hermione slumped back on the ground, groaning as the initial shock from the explosion faded and agony began to set in. She couldn’t see Xander in the house, which looked completely intact except for a blackened hole in the front of the house where the door had been. A woman came running up to her, dressed in a waitress uniform from some wizarding restaurant that Hermione vaguely recognized. The woman hovered over Hermione, frantically waving her hands and looking concerned. Hermione couldn’t understand a thing the woman said but she reached for her Auror badge to identify herself, recoiling when she saw that the metal shield had partially melted into her flesh. That sight, combined with the increasingly-agonizing pain, made black spots appear into her vision. She realized that she was going to pass out. Her vision swam.

Hands suddenly pulled the overly-helpful woman away from Hermione and Harry’s face appeared in her vision. Gone was his devastated, broken expression, replaced with a burning focus and intensity. Here was the Harry that she knew. Harry assessed her condition briefly and spoke to the four mediwizards that accompanied him. He put his hand on her unhurt shoulder and looked intensely into her eyes, speaking a few sentences that Hermione couldn’t hear. She tried to point to her ears to signal that she couldn’t hear him, but her wand arm fell weakly to her side. Harry kissed her quickly on the forehead and ran into the house in the direction that Xander had gone, his wand held aloft.

Everything hurt so badly; she could barely concentrate on her surroundings. Medical assessment charms were settling around her, telling the mediwizards everything about her physical condition, from heart rate, to blood oxygen levels, to her breathing rate.

Mediwizards slid a long, thin mat under Hermione’s body and prepared to transport her to the hospital. One of the mediwizards slipped on the bloody grass as they lifted her into the air and accidentally jarred Hermione’s injured shoulder. Pain flooded through her and everything went black.

~*~

The first thing she became conscious of was crippling pain in her shoulder and the biting scent of antiseptic potions. She wasn’t being carried anymore and could tell that she was lying on a soft mattress in a stationary bed. Above her, voices argued in low, restrained tones.

“I’m not doing it,” snarled a cold, somehow familiar voice. “I consult for you as a Mind Healer, not a medical Healer.”

“Your contract with us states that in emergent conditions—such as these—you will step in to provide any and all necessary services _for which you are qualified._ All Mind Healers, including yourself, are certified first in the medical field before specializing in mental conditions, as you well know, Mr. Malfoy,” replied a curt, professional voice.

 _Draco Malfoy?_ Hermione would have jerked in shock, but she was too weak from blood loss to even open her eyes, much less react in surprise. The professional voice continued. “The sinkhole in Bristol caused a lot of casualties and we are short on Healers at the moment. Auror Granger’s case is of moderate severity and you will heal her to the best of your abilities.”

“And if something goes wrong, the press will have a field day,” spat the first voice. “Death-Eater-Turned-Healer Murders Famous Hermione Granger In A Healing Gone Wrong. Everyone knows we were rivals in school. If anything at all goes wrong, they’ll crucify me.”

 _He’s not wrong about that,_ Hermione thought distractedly. Then she vaguely processed what they were talking about. Malfoy was supposed to heal her? She felt faint at the thought. No, she felt faint because she was seriously injured. When would they stop talking and finally heal her?

“You are an excellent and capable Healer. None of her injuries are beyond your expertise to heal, are they? St. Mungo’s is behind you, Draco, as always,” the professional voice said, softening slightly. “Your service here has been invaluable to us and we’re grateful to you. Now, I’ll leave you to heal Auror Granger.”

The door shut with a soft click.

“Fuck,” hissed Draco Malfoy. His epithet was harsh, but his fingers were gentle as they probed at Hermione’s injuries. “Second degree burns over heart, wood impaled in left shoulder, possible spinal injury. Brilliant. Can’t wait.”

Hermione wanted desperately to open her eyes to see what he was going to do, but her muscles refused to obey her. When she tried to speak, only an unintelligible moan escaped.

“Granger?” Malfoy snapped, sounding irritated. “Open your eyes.”

 _I would if I could, idiot,_ she thought irritably.

“Ennervate.”

 _I’m already awake,_ she grumbled in her head.

“Hermione Granger, you’re in St. Mungo’s Hospital. You’ve suffered severe injuries but you’re in the care of a Healer now. If you can hear me, please make some indication,” Malfoy said monotonously, sounding like he was reciting from a script.

Hermione tried to speak once more but was unable to. Exhausted from the effort, she felt herself slipping away once more into oblivion.

“I’d rather not hear your smart mouth anyway,” was the last grumble that she heard before blackness overcame her.

~*~

A hand gripped her throat firmly and a cold glass vial touched her lips. Her lips parted and her mouth filled with a spicy, thick liquid.

“Swallow.”

Hermione’s throat muscles worked and she obeyed, wincing at the taste. But within seconds, she felt strength returning to her limbs. The agonizing pain in her left shoulder had faded and was replaced by a distant ache. Cold air whispered across her skin, making her hideously aware that she was no longer wearing her uniform. She opened her eyes slowly, dreading what she knew she would see.

Draco Malfoy stood alone before her in the otherwise empty hospital room, arms crossed, his wand in one hand and the empty vial in the other hand. She hadn’t seen him since she’d gone with Harry to his trial, and that had been nearly eight years ago. He was a little taller, and more muscular instead of just being pale and skinny, but other than that, he looked just as he had in the courtroom. There was something else different about him now, but in her current condition, Hermione couldn’t focus well enough to figure out what it was.

She could, however, focus on the fact that she was naked from the waist up. She was lying in a hospital bed with a thin blanket tucked around her bare torso, preserving her modesty. Hermione shuddered as she realized who had put that blanket there and what he had seen as he’d healed her.

“Out of all the Healers in the entire hospital, I had to get you,” she stated, her teeth gritted.

Malfoy sneered, and it was so familiar to her from her memories that she almost laughed out loud at her predicament. “I don’t work in this paltry hospital, Granger. I consult here occasionally.”

It was obviously a sore spot for him, so Hermione nodded patronizingly. “I’m sure you do, Healer Malfoy. And I consider myself _so_ lucky that you’re here today to heal me.” Her words were sugary-sweet, and she fixed her old schoolyard enemy with an innocent smile that was cut short by a twinge in her shoulder. She glanced over at where the wood had impaled her and winced—the wound had been expertly healed, though there was a single, star-shaped scar the size of a quarter to show for it. Bandages were wound around her upper chest, covering the spot where her badge had melted into her skin.

“You _are_ lucky,” spat Malfoy, looking almost insulted. “My usual hourly fees are much too expensive for someone like _you_ to ever afford, so consider yourself blessed to have had me here today to heal you.” He turned his back to her and began rearranging used potion vials on the counter behind him.

Hermione rolled her eyes. Cocky as always... And then it hit her—what else had changed about him. It was his confidence. He had always been a cocky git in school, but that cockiness had been born of his faith in his parents and in his money. In his sixth and seventh year, when he had been forced into the cold, cruel realization that even his parents and his money couldn’t protect him from Voldemort, he’d been a frightened, broken child with no one to turn to. Even in the courtroom, after Voldemort was finished, Malfoy still had that fear ingrained deep into him and it showed in every facet of his body. That fear and weakness was gone now. The way Malfoy carried himself now, it was like he’d grown into his own skin. He moved with confidence and surety. He held his head high. Hermione doubted that he let anyone push him around now. Seeing the change in him made her almost smile; they had all been scared, broken children once and it was almost inspiring to see that many of them had come out stronger.

Then Malfoy turned around and his irritating smirk made Hermione’s half-smile disappear as quickly as it had arrived. “Your shoulder has been healed, though you’ll likely have pain in the injured tendons for at least a week. The burn from your badge was severe, so it will require an overnight stay in this wonderful establishment. Charm-imbued bandages will be changed every hour by a Healer’s Assistant to reduce scarring and speed up your healing.” His tone was clinical and professional, something that Hermione had never heard from him before.

He stopped, and Hermione found herself saying automatically, “Thank you.”

Malfoy actually looked surprised by her gratitude. “Well, it’s my job,” he said briskly.

The door slammed open, drawing both of their attention. Harry strode in, Auror badge shining brightly on the outside of his uniform. “Hermione,” he whispered, his haggard expression lifting as he saw with his own eyes that she was healed. “How do you feel?” he asked anxiously, stroking her cheek with his fingers.

“I’m fine,” Hermione answered, leaning into the caress of her best friend. Though it had taken a life-threatening situation, she was glad that her Harry was back—at least for the moment—instead of the grief-stricken Harry she had seen this morning.

“I’m so sorry about this morning,” Harry said, as if reading her thoughts. “I just kept thinking—what if that was the last time that I saw you? I can’t even—”

“As touching as this is,” Malfoy drawled, “I have other matters to attend to, so I’ll be taking my leave.”

Harry straightened, turning his focus finally to Malfoy. “So leave,” he stated blandly, refusing to rise to the bait or acknowledge Malfoy as his old enemy. “Thank you for your assistance.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes at Harry’s attitude but didn’t comment on it. “She will remain here overnight but should avoid strenuous activity for at least a week.” And with those orders, he swept out the door.

Harry drew up a chair beside Hermione’s bed and clasped her hands in his. Before he could continue the previous topic, Hermione cut in. “I accept your apology. But what happened? Did Xander get them?”

Harry nodded, looking relieved to change the topic. “Our information about the shipyard was correct—they were keeping the children there. However, they themselves were living in the house that you and Xander were investigating. Xander caught the woman, Lyra Penny, before she disapparated and compelled her to take him to where the children are hidden. Her husband is still on the loose, but we recovered all of the children, safe and sound.”

Hermione sighed in relief. “Thank Merlin. Do we know yet why they wanted the children?”

“Not yet,” Harry answered. “But she’ll be interrogated with Veritaserum and we should know soon enough.”

“I want to be there,” Hermione said firmly. “For the interrogation.”

Harry shook his head before she was even done talking. “You’re staying here overnight and then you’re taking a week off of work to rest and recover. You were just _impaled_ with a block of wood, Hermione. I don’t even want to see you in the office until the middle of next week at the very earliest.”

“But—”

Hermione’s protest was cut off by a silver bull Patronus materializing in the center of the room. Asher’s voice spoke out of it. “Auror Potter, we got Shayn Penny. He’s in the holding cell at the Ministry.”

Harry leapt to his feet. “I’ll be right there,” he told the Patronus. Turning to Hermione, he said firmly, “You’re taking a week off. I’ll come back later tonight to visit you, but my answer is not going to change.”

Once he had strode excitedly out of the room, Hermione leaned back on her pillow, bored already. She didn’t even have a book with her or another patient in the room to pass the time with. The injury and the banter between her and Malfoy had exhausted her, however, and she found it easy to fall asleep to the gentle tick-tock of the clock mounted on the wall above her bed. 


End file.
